


choke when you see love grow

by softbruise



Series: college au [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Young Avengers
Genre: F/F, america needs a hug, don't ask me how that happened, i meant to write drabble, noh makes a cameo, tommy and america are bros, tommy is not a very good wingman, what is even going on in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softbruise/pseuds/softbruise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[title taken from charli xcx's "you (ha ha ha)" because reasons]</p><p>College feels entirely too stationary for America.</p><p>It’s hardly a surprise, considering the way that she grew up. She hates the monotony of routine, the inescapable sensation of being trapped even when she's out under the open sky. And ending up like this -- in one place for so long -- has always been top of the list of things she never, ever wanted to do.</p><p>Yet here she is: espresso, commute from hell, philosophy, electric pop, blank, radio static, good morning, good evening, good night, repeat, blur, with the occasional fuck you thrown in. It still feels a little like a dream, which she supposes is most of the reason she's managed to stick it out this long.</p><p>(That, and the fact that there's something about New York. Something that feels like a held breath, just waiting to be let out. Waiting to happen. There's a prickle on America's skin that tells her to stick around, just stay a little longer. She tries not to think about how long it's been.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	choke when you see love grow

**Author's Note:**

> oh god okay so this happened  
> i have never been to university so please go easy on any mistakes that may be present in this  
> semi-beta'd, idc  
> feel free to come yell with me about amerikate on [tumblr](www.proserpining.tumblr.com)  
> in summary: the young avengers college au you never wanted

College feels entirely too stationary for America.

It’s hardly a surprise, considering the way that she grew up. She hates the monotony of routine, the inescapable sensation of being _trapped_ even when she's out under the open sky. And ending up like this - in one place for so long - has always been top of the list of things she never, ever wanted to do.

Yet here she is: espresso, commute from hell, philosophy, electric pop, blank, radio static, good morning, good evening, good night, repeat, blur, with the occasional _fuck you_ thrown in. It still feels a little like a dream, which she supposes is most of the reason she's managed to stick it out this long.

(That, and the fact that there's something about New York. Something that feels like a held breath, just waiting to be let out. Waiting to happen. There's a prickle on America's skin that tells her to stick around, just stay a little longer. She tries not to think about how long it's been.)

On a slightly more America-ish note, she is _so fucking done_ with the dark-haired girl on her bus, sat next to the blonde guy who is perpetually injured in some way (and she doesn't know if the dude's an alcoholic construction worker or just really, really accident prone). The girl owns the shittiest pair of headphones, and can't even stop short at blaring her music out of them - she has to sing along in an off-key warble. Christ.

Okay, so America hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Whatever.

Historically speaking, she isn't a tolerant kind of girl - punch-em-in-the-face-until-they-stop tends to be how she rolls. But Tommy keeps telling her about breathing, and counting to ten, and finding solutions that don't involve physical violence or swearing.

Yeah, America has never been very good at listening.  

“Hey, princess,” she says, leaning forward. There's no response. America shoves the girl's shoulder lightly, not enough to hurt, just to get her attention. Slipping her headphones down - and at this distance America can tell that it's some kind of indie music, light on bass and heavy on vocals - the girl looks up.

“What?”

“Please, if you have any empathy for the general public, capitalistic shitheads though we may be, shut the fuck up.”

The girl blinks. “Wow. Fuck off.”

“I'm not the one ruining an already-crap commute for a bus mostly full of college students operating on no sleep and bad coffee.” And yep, okay, there is definitely an eye-roll in there when the girl slips her headphones back on. Which is less than America had expected. But the girl turns the music down some and shuts up, so America allows herself a small smile. She'll rub it in Tommy's face later.

Someone taps her arm, and she turns, her smile vanishing very, very quickly. (She's been informed that her ability to go from content to Not Content At All in two seconds flat is one of the most terrifying aspects of her personality. She is fairly sure this is a lie.)

“What?”

“Dude, do you even know who you just pissed off?” The guy is blonde, tall, with pierced ears. Good-looking, America supposes.

She blinks. “What, you mean headphones princess over there?”

“You –” the guy bites off a disbelieving expression. “That's _Kate Bishop_.”

“Pope who?”

He almost grins, and then catches himself and replaces it with horror. “Her dad, like, practically owns the campus.”

“Am I supposed to give a shit?”

This time he does grin. “I like you. Freshman too? What classes?”

“Yeah.” She eyes him. Likes her? _Nobody_ likes her. “Uh, Philosophy, Women and Gender Studies, World History.”

“Nice. Hey, doesn't Xavier teach Philosophy? I heard he's pretty cool.”

“He's all right.” America is still suspicious. “I like Stark better. He doesn't give a crap about deadlines and he's more likely to have majored in “attention span of a gnat” than History of any kind.”

The guy snorts. “I'm Teddy.”

“America. I will kick the crap out of you if you take the piss out of my name. Actually, I'll probably do that anyway. It usually happens eventually. Fair warning.” She wonders if she's scared him away yet, but he sticks out his hand and, bemused, she shakes it.

More roots. She shakes her head internally. _What are you doing?_

The bus pulls up, and Tommy almost barrels her over as she steps off. “America! Hey! How are you?” He takes a deep breath in and she knows he's about to spill out a sentence without any spaces in it, so she cuts him off.

“Tommy, I literally do not care. Slow the hell down to normal speed, or leave.” She glances up to see that bus-guy – _Teddy_ , that's his name – is still standing nearby. “You need something?”

“Nah. Just didn't realise you knew Tommy Shepherd.” Teddy grins. “You must be more tolerant than you look. I'm his roommate. Not that you’d know it, the amount I actually see him.”

America winces. Right - Teddy Altman. She should have made the connection, probably, but it's a common enough first name.

“I'm offended. Just because I have more friends than you --” Tommy waves to someone, and America turns. It's a dark-haired boy, who approaches Teddy with a smile born of practice and easy familiarity. America has never mastered it.

“America, this is Billy. Billy, this is America.”

She blinks again. More people? This morning is just full of surprises.

“Hi.” She doesn't say _nice to meet you_ , because, well, it's not. Particularly. She’s never been good at, or wanted to be good at, making friends. Ties. Reasons to hang around. Whatever. Today is a contradiction all over, because she is utterly nonplussed to find that she doesn't hate it.

“Billy's going to hate you,” Teddy says, and turns to him: “She totally told Kate to shut up on the bus this morning. No one does that.”

The slight boy raises an eyebrow. “And she let you?”

“Well, she told me to fuck off. But she turned the music down and stopped singing, so I'm not going to complain.”

Billy laughs. “That's my girl. If she'd let you off without at least one expletive, I would have had words to say.”

“You two are friends?” America is… not shocked, but it's unexpected.

“Yeah. We've been pretty close since last year.” Billy suddenly looks uncomfortable, and America, who vaguely remembers reading about the death of one of the students here at the time, elects to not-very-delicately change the subject.

“Well, I have to get to class.”

“See you around, America. Hey, are you free around lunch?”

And for some bizarre reason, instead of snapping back with _sorry, I'm all booked up decapitating nosy college boys_ , or even just blowing him off with a polite-enough _I'm busy_ , what comes out of her mouth is: “Yes?”

“Awesome. Meet us here at one, and we'll go to the local diner. They do _great_ pancakes.”

Tommy grins. “America, you _have_ to try the chocolate ones. Divine. Also, expect David to turn up.”

David is a name she knows, an on-and-off friend/boyfriend/ex/acquaintance/friend again of Tommy's.

“In what capacity?” Teddy asks, which is exactly what she was about to say.

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” Tommy says, and okay, now America really does need to get to class, because Xavier's lectures are never easy to catch up on. So she excuses herself, and this time she tries to be polite, she really does. And it goes okay, and she sits through two and a half hours of Philosophy and comes away with an essay to write on Aristotle’s _Nicomachean Ethics_. It's a good thing she takes notes instead of texting.

Standing around, waiting for Teddy, America refuses to feel stupid, or to even entertain the idea that they won't turn up. Just as her self-control is starting to slip and she contemplates calling Tommy, or even just leaving, Teddy jogs round the corner.

“Hey!” he says, smiling. “Sorry I'm a little late. Barnes is an asshole.”

She shrugs and tries to look unconcerned. He doesn't seem to buy it. “We wouldn't have ditched on you,” he says. She nods.

“Where are the others?” she asks, and he smiles again. He seems to smile a lot.

“Billy will turn up any second, and you know how Tommy is.”

“Always late. But David tends to keep him in check. They dating again?”

Teddy lifts a shoulder noncommittally. “No idea. Bona fide genius and a guy who never slows down? It's probably always going to be hit and miss with them.”

“Judging by past experience, yeah.”

Tommy and David round the corner, and Teddy grins at them. “Hey.”

“Hey, Teddy! Who are we waiting on? And you must be America.” David is young, attractive, and there's just a little too much distance between him and Tommy.

She raises an eyebrow. “That's me. What've you heard?”

“All good things,” he says, and then amends it to: “Well. Mostly good things.”

She snorts. “Same to you.”

Teddy looks a little concerned. “You two seen Billy?”

Before either of the newcomers can reply, the boy in question dashes into sight, tugging on the hand of none other than the bus princess from this morning. What was her name? Kate?

“Oh, please, no,” Kate says, seeing America.

“Hey, princess,” America drawls.

 

It turns out that the local diner really does do the best pancakes. Kate sulks the whole meal, which American finds highly amusing and doesn't bother hiding it. David and Tommy are awkward - David has a habit of finishing the other's sentences and then catching himself, as if with a sharp mental reminder that _this is not a thing that we do now._

“So, America,” Tommy says. “How did you fall in with this ragged band of anarchists?”

She snorts. A strange sense of comfort has begun to permeate the conversation, and she feels almost at home. It sets her teeth on edge and makes her muscles tense, but she's decided to leave it be. For now.

She can always leave again. America doesn't do commitment.

“She was her charming, profane self,” Kate answers drily, and America raises an eyebrow.

“You asked for it, princess.”

“There are more polite ways to tell someone to shut the fuck up than _shut the fuck up_.”

“But they're all far less effective.” She has been pleasantly, guiltily surprised to discover that Kate is funny, thoughtful, and… kind of hot. America can’t help but revel in this, friendly conversation and pancakes and coffee. It won't last - it never does. The best she can expect to come away with is good memories.

Something about these people makes her want to make these the best she can.

They talk into the afternoon, David and Tommy departing not-quite-hand-in-hand for their respective lectures. America is free for the rest of the day, and it is with obvious regret that Billy stands and says he has a shift at the comic book store in half an hour. Teddy goes with him, and they link hands as they leave the diner. America makes a surprised noise.

Kate raises her eyebrows. “ They’re all over each other. You didn't know?”

“No,” she admits, and then looks at her hands. “So I guess you'll be going now.”

Kate stretches. “Only if you are. I have archery later, but I've got hours to kill yet.”

America is amazed at how much she welcomes the suggestion. “Cool. You want another drink?”

“Sure.” She reaches for her wallet, but America shakes her head.

“This one's on me, princess. Consider it an apology.”

Hesitant, Kate smiles. “Thanks. Black coffee, please.”

After ordering and sitting back down, America bites her lip, uncomfortable.

Kate breaks the silence. “So,” she begins. “What do you like?”

“What?”

“You bought me coffee and I'm drinking it. We're friends now. So, what do you like?”

Friends. It's a warning sign, a flashing neon one. America ignores it. “Girls. Pizza. Coffee. I ...don't know. I'm not very good at staying in one place.”

“You're at university.”

She laughs harshly. “I know.  It's radically out of character.”

“Teddy says you're doing Women and Gender Studies, right? What do you think? You like Romanoff?”

“Sure. She's a decent teacher, and she's badass. Wait, you're in that class?”

“Yeah. I usually just sit in the corner and make pissy comments under my breath about the vast majority of the students in there who are fucking around on their phones.”

America snorts. “Nice. I was wondering if anyone else actually took notes on that lecture the other day.”

The ice is broken. They laugh and talk and compare impressions of their classmates, which are mostly overwhelmingly negative; they've both christened some of the more obnoxious ones in their heads with nicknames.

“Greg Norris? You're unimaginative. He's Misogynist Twat Who Complains About His Lack of Sex Life, Possibly A Closeted Gay Dude. You have to wonder if they're actually being paid to go to the class, honestly. And the guy who sits next to him is -”

“Pale Grunge Hipster With Conflicting Music Tastes,” Kate says. “I think his name may actually be No, which, same. Also, there's a girl on my side of the room who is cheating on her boyfriend with his ex, which doesn't surprise me. I've seen her eating cafeteria food, and I'm pretty sure that would drive me to murder.”

“I thought - Teddy said your dad practically owns the campus, or some shit.”

Kate grins. “All the more reason to insult it. Besides, you try telling me the caf food isn't utter crap. “

“It is awful,” America concedes, her mouth crooking up at the corner. “Have you seen Barnes' boyfriend? Small, blonde, cute TA? Always fighting with Stark? He sits in on Romanoff's lectures sometimes.”

And so, she supposes, they have found some normalcy. Some common ground. _God_ , she thinks, _aren't we humans strange creatures?_

 

The next day, she has Romanoff's class. She wishes she could pretend she doesn't scan the room; Kate waves her over.

“Hey!”

“Hey,” America says, and sits down.

“How are you?”

“Tired. Been working on an essay for Xavier.”

“When's it due?”

“A week from now. But I figured I'd get it done in case anything came up.” Crap, does it sound like she's flirting? _Is_ she flirting?

“Are you expecting something to?” _Kate_ definitely thinks she's flirting.

“Maybe.” That would have been the perfect opportunity to say, _not really_ , and escape. So why didn't she?

 _You liiike her_ , taunts her inner Loki. She wishes she'd never met him and his terrible sense of humour back in DC - he's ruined her forever.

And so what if she does like Kate? America can feel herself getting defensive, which is One Hundred Percent Not On. She rolls her eyes inwardly and turns back to the conversation.

 

Later, she and Tommy sit on the couch and ignore the _Grey's Anatomy_ rerun blaring out of the TV.

“All right,” Tommy says, pressing the mute button on the remote control. “Out with it.”

“She's basically so straight it's painful,” says America, head in hands, and Tommy sighs.

“Ever the optimist.”

“I swore at her on public transport!”

“Okay, yeah, maybe not historically good for relationships,” Tommy admits. “But hey. At least your true colours are already revealed, right?”

“Really not sure that's a positive thing.”

“Nor is your relationship history. “

America winces. “Harsh.”

Tommy has the grace to look at least somewhat abashed. “But seriously, America - don't give it up as a lost cause already.”

“Tommy, it's just a crush. I'm gonna be leaving here soon enough, anyway.”

He shakes his head. “You said that three months ago.”

“I mean it this time.” She stands. “You crashing here tonight?”

Tommy shrugs. “Expect so. Billy's over, and I don't want to walk in on that again - I'm already traumatised.”

“You're welcome to.”

“Thanks.” He throws aside the blanket and closes the door to her spare room - his room, really  - behind him. America sighs, and gets up, padding into the kitchen to make tea.

Later, curled up in the  warmth of her bed with her drink, she thinks of - not just Kate. Of Tommy, who knows her better than anyone, who thinks she's going to stay. Of Kate, of course, gorgeous and funny, of Billy who is sassy, bitchy and a glorious fangirl - Teddy, calm and unassuming.

She needs to get out of here.

She needs to leave.

_Now._

Suddenly the urge is overwhelming and she thinks, hearing her own ragged breathing and jagged heartbeat, that she is going to panic if she doesn’t do - something. She is shaking. Bad memories, bad memories. Loki. Her mother. Her mother. Kate, Kate, Kate. Tommy. _You said that three months ago_. Laughing, shaking his head, fond, like he trusts her.

 _You bought me coffee and I’m drinking it._ _We’re friends now._ She realises that the bitter taste on her tongue is blood in her mouth from biting her lip.   
She throws the covers off with more violence than necessary and stands up in her cami and shorts. She switches into jeans and a jumper with the US flag emblazoned on the front.

The pulse in her chest is telling her, _move, move, go, go on, get out, you always do, it’s no different,_ and she’s trying to listen but she knows that it’s a lie. It is different this time. Not just today, the shock of meeting new people - hell, there’s nothing stopping her from blowing them off. She's done it before.

It’s not that.

It’s the fear that she doesn’t want to.

She wants to leave but she doesn’t want to leave, not at all, and that is why she absolutely has to. Because if she stays she’ll fuck it up.

Better for there never to be anything to fuck up at all.

Even if this is the longest she's ever stayed in one place, she still owns next to nothing.  Habit, she supposes. What she does own is quickly either packed up or left where it is; she leaves a note on the counter letting Tommy know he can take what he wants. She also writes out a brief, inadequate apology:

_This is a shitty thing to do. I'm sorry. Good luck, & goodbye._

_-A_

 

The air is brisk and biting against her face. It's cold, it's the middle of the night, she doesn't know what she's doing or where she's going. And she certainly isn't expecting to round the corner and run headlong into some uncharacteristically quiet-moving New Yorker.

“Oof,” says the figure, and falls over in a surprisingly graceful manner, somehow managing to end up sitting on the sidewalk rather than lying on it.

“Sorry,” says America belatedly, and there is an indrawn breath.

“America?”

She blinks, and peers at the face in front of her, illuminated only by orange street glow and light pollution. “ _…Kate?_ ”

There's an awkward silence as the two of them scramble to their feet, and America gestures down the street and ventures, “I guess I'll be going?”

“Where to?”

 _Oh._ America is silent as she considers her options: one, lie, which is unappealing and will probably fall through the moment Kate starts asking questions; two, tell the truth.

She says, “I'm leaving town.”

Kate blinks, swallows, looks at America’s duffel bag. “Right. You mentioned you're not good at staying still.”

“No.” America looks down. “Why are you out here?”

“Clint wanted me to practice shooting in the dark.” At 3am? Who is this guy? America would ask, but curiosity whimpers its way back into the dark when faced with all the reasons why she shouldn’t.

Kate shuffles, uncomfortable, and America waits for her to speak. “This - you leaving. It isn't...to do with me, is it?”

The idea is so bizarre that for a moment America doesn't process what Kate is asking. Then she barks out a laugh. “No. I'm not leaving because of you.” And then she realises what she has said, and why she is leaving, and pauses. “Mostly.”

“Mostly? Why _are_ you leaving?”

 _It felt like something was going to happen and now it doesn't feel like that anymore and I'm scared that the something was you but I'm terrified of staying to find out,_ she thinks.

What comes out is, “I don't know how not to.”

A soft smile appears on Kate's face. “Okay,” she says. “But before you go, let me show you something.” She half-circles, walking away, soft and hard all at once in the lines of her long body. Turning back briefly, she tilts her head in a silent question - _follow me?_

For some reason, America does.

 

The roof is no warmer than it had been on the street. Kate had climbed six stories up the fire escape with her archery equipment on her back and wasn’t even winded at the top, which was impressive and kind of ...hot?

“Any reason you brought me here, princess?” America asks, and it doesn’t come out as harsh as she’d meant it to. Kate, face lit up by the orange light coming from the panels on the floor, smiles. 

“Look,” she says, and moves over to the edge. Before America can cry out, she sits down, legs dangling off the edge. “Come here.”

America moves forward, tentative in a way she has never been, and sits down beside Kate. The city lies splayed out beneath them, a great beast glowing and sparking, murmurs of movement upon shifting streets. There’s a lazy sort of motion here she has never seen before, like the whole of New York is some vast, breathing, living thing. Never still. 

Maybe she’s had this all wrong from the beginning. 

Kate says, very softly, so that America has to strain to hear, “It never stops.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Everything.” She gestures with a slender, expressive hand. “It’s three AM. Listen hard enough and you can hear bass thumping. Half the streets aren’t empty. Everyone is alive. Everyone is moving.”

America doesn’t respond. She sits there, feeling the warmth from Kate’s side against her, feeling - something. A breath, long and longer still, then let out. She breathes with it, lets her lungs expand and then release air in slow contractions, and every time she takes another mouthful of oxygen she can feel herself getting closer. 

Until finally, it clicks. She reaches the place, the one she hadn’t understood until now. It is so perfectly clear to her that she cannot imagine how she has missed it. In tandem, she and the city and Kate, breathing, all side by side and meshed up in each other, wholly one and wholly separate, a trinity like they are the only ones alive. The smaller, dimmer glows of light, pinpricked dots of other lives sweeping the streets bright. 

For the first time, America thinks maybe New York isn’t motionless, isn't stationary at all. She thinks maybe it’s the biggest wave she’s ever seen.

To her left, Kate Bishop smiles.


End file.
